Hetalia: You Can't Leave Me
by Bai-Marionette
Summary: Horror: "You can never leave me, Fredka," He says sweetly, as he chuckles darkly. His eyes are dark, and my eyes widen. I had never made him this mad. Ivan was beyond mad. Ivan was ready for me to see our wedding bed. RusAme
1. Case Contents: File 1

**You Can't Leave Me**

**Rating: **T

**Summary:** Horror: "You can never leave me, Fredka," He says sweetly, as he chuckles darkly. His eyes are dark, and my eyes widen. I had never made him this mad. Ivan was beyond mad. Ivan was ready for me to see our wedding bed. RusAme

_**BrooklynBabbii**_

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**Chapter One**:

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February 3rd, 20XX

_Dear Awesome (Journal),_

_I met the HAWT-TEST guy at the club, the other day. It was awesome! Like almost as awesome as my American flag Converses, which I wore that night, and which the HAWT stranger commented on – and said he liked the design. _

_I told him I was looking into going into the Air Force, after the summer was over, and he smiled. He said it was good that I was trying to defend my country. Oh yeah, I found out his name too! It kinda fit __**hi***_

_Ivan Bragnisk__**i.**_

_Wait, now that I think about it… There was a pretty grisly case about some case in Alaska about some guy with that last name going mad after his lover/some shit left him for another dude. It was __**rea**_

_Huh. Must be a coincidence, right? Like the last name Jones. There's no way Ivan is some homicidal killer, right? Yeah, he's totally HAWT, and it's always the ugly guys who turn out to be the evil and crazy seria__**l**__ killers, right? I guess that's ri__**gh**_

_Alfred F. Jones_

_P.S. You'll never believe what Mattie said to me the other __**da**_

* * *

Detective Kirkland looks down grimly at the worn and expertly burnt pages. He was holding the old journal of their missing person of 3 years. Alfred Foster Jones: that was his legal government name. He was a young man of 19 years, born in Washington D.C to a military family. He had no blood siblings.**

He could still remember the day the boy had come in, three years ago on this day, face haggard and how he was forever looking over his shoulder, even though he was dressed warmly in the bad snow storm outside and in the presence of multiple able officers in the police station.

The Detective will never forget Alfred's words, when he had come in:

"You…you can help me, right?" He had asked, when Kirkland had nodded, he had continued, "You're one of the best. You can help me, of course." He could remember all too well how the young man had come right up to him, and taken him by the shoulders, blue eyes full of the worst fear. "You **have** to help me."

Those last words would haunt him forever…

"I can't stay there anymore, he's going to figure out I left the house and he's going to come and get me," Alfred had said, shaking his head and splattering raindrops. "The safe place isn't safe anymore. I know he knows where I am."

Detective Kirkland felt some guilt as he recalled how he had said Alfred was in one of the best havens he could be offered. He felt more guilt as he recalled calming the man down, as he drove him back, how he had turned down the offer of tea to say a while.

He wished he had stayed. Not even an hour after he had left Alfred alone, a frantic call to the station had been made. When the line opened, all that was heard was screaming and the sounds of crashes. There was one solid bang of a gunshot, and then footsteps as someone walked on the hardwood flooring to pick up the phone.

A cajoling voice saying on the other end, "Thank you for keeping him in one place, officers." A dial tone abruptly ended the call, before anyone could say anything. Kirkland had ordered for the phone call to be tracked immediately as he, himself, tried to call Alfred.

Of course, the boy hadn't answered. He sent some patrols to go out to the house. They never returned. Even now, three years later, no word that they were even still alive. Kirkland had called them all, and the only thing he was received was from the one officer: a Toris Laurinaitis.

He had sounded like he was crying, and there was a slight crinkling. He was in a bad area, as there was little reception. The officer had only the time to say, "I didn't call them, I swear, I didn't!" Before a sound bang was heard, a scream and then the dial tone to say that the phone had been broken.

The officers he had trusted to track the call finally succeeded, sometime by early morning. They hadn't been able to do so fully, as when they got there, they found the only tower chopped down and the phone cords cut carefully. There would be no more communication to this supposed safe haven, for a while, until it was fixed.

An inspection of the house resulted in Kirkland feeling not only guiltier, but just horrified at all of the damage. Couches overturned, shear marks exposing the cushions' fillings. The large and heavy antique wooden table had a bloody handprint on the edge, and it looked to be dragged off.

Later, a blood analysis found it to be both Alfred's blood and fingerprints. No gun powder was found it, and no evidence of the blood having been induced by any sort of knife. There was no more evidence on the table.

Deeper inspection led to seeing one mutilated body, the body of Officer Jett, an Australian recruit, new to the force, in the kitchen. When they found him, he was barely alive, and in fatal condition. He was immediately taken to the hospital, to recover, and to question on the happenings when he woke up.

He never woke up. Somehow, during his stay, without being seen, someone had put s shot of air in his IV. They never found the culprit.

In the living room was even more devastated furniture. There was also more blood. More analysis found it to be some of the officers Kirkland had called to go into the house, the officers he hadn't heard from in years, and more of Alfred's blood.

They had gone up the stairs and found a semi-deep engraving on the floor leading the bedroom. The door was broken. The doorknob embedded in the very wall on the opposite side. The window was broken, some of a shirt having caught on it. (Analysis showed it to have been on Alfred at the time. No further prints.)

There was more blood, and then a mixture of blood and sperm on the bed sheets. Which Kirkland had found it disgusting to say the least. But when he sent off the pink mixture to be tested, he was shocked to find that it was only Alfred's. But a faint detection of rubber was found, and the detectives had to conclude that their suspect had worn a condom. It angered Kirkland to know they still had nothing.

Well, that is, until someone looked under the bed. They found a piece of light string of Alfred's shirt there, with a slight clue there. A single clue: a small piece of hair. A white-blonde hair, it was seemingly nothing and yet everything that they had been looking for.

They finally had something…until they tried to search it. Just as Kirkland was awaited the results, the forensics lab caught fire and everything was burned down to the ground. All of the evidence tested, waiting to be tested, everything was gone.

They had nothing, and were back to square one.

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This is why I'm not allowed to watch CSI in my house. I write shit like this. v.v

Anywho~ This might not be updated for awhile, considering how many ficts I have out right now. ^^'

Buuuuuuut yeah, you're welcome to follow/favorite/review. I can promise you, this story will put you through Hell and back. :D

Have fun with it!

**READ AND ****REVIEW****!**

***ha: **These are a sign of the words being cut off by burned pages, the word is incomplete.

**** No Blood Siblings: **You will understand this, later on.


	2. Case Contents: File 2

**You Can't Leave Me**

**Rating: **T

**Summary:** Horror: "You can never leave me, Fredka," He says sweetly, as he chuckles darkly. His eyes are dark, and my eyes widen. I had never made him this mad. Ivan was beyond mad. Ivan was ready for me to see our wedding bed. RusAme

_**BrooklynBabbii**_

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Author Alert: HypnoticWords

Story alert/ Favorites: **silentbunny17, Ashcola17, HypnoticWords, vampy-chan321, kukuki, gemstarre, Lady Cooper, Arkxy-chan, summer164, EclipsedDevil13, emismpunk, SakuraDrops141, America96, telemarker, kukuki, XOTAKUNationXpro, HypnoticWords, Lazy Gaga, CookieBirdGirl, RomericaGO**

Reviewer(s)!: **Ashcola17, 91RedRoses, America96, TobiTheNinjaKitten, Wow, Animaegan , v5, HypnoticWords, JoyHeart, Lazy Gaga, KittywithCoffee, CookieBirdGirl, Ivan Braginski 0J0, emismpunk **

Ashcola17: Why? You want to know why? Blame my toaster. *derp* I shall leave you hanging again with this one too – NOW WHAT, FRENCHIE? :{D

RomericaGO: Now, you can never leave me, RomericaGO. I OWN you. Want a cookie laced with the tidings of my joy of this occasion? :3

91RedRoses: Creepy and awesome, yup and yup. Here you go, hun, thanks for reviewing the opening files! :D

America96: I'm glad you think so, America. Here is more to your capture. ^w^

TobiTheNinjaKitten: This is WTF is going on. Kinda. Here is some answers for your (probably) overwhelmed mind. :D

Wow: Define 'good', now define 'Batshit Crazy'. We can all see the fine line there. Ivan has crossed that line. Let's all pray for Al.

Animaegan: Darkness, blood and angst: sounds about right. I did keep up the work. Look at this update. :o

v5: D-don't beg m-me to do an-anything. I can't g-g-go against the begging! GAH! (Don't kill the keyboard, we need those. Have a tissue or towel.) This is going good/terrible places~

HypnoticWords: I will give you MORE. Here is more. I love pyscho!Ivan too!

JoyHeart: …Poor Alfred-san. May he survive, and retain most if not any of his sanity. (I'm glad I caught your interest!)

Lazy Gaga: Yes, yes it does. (…Three is the lucky charm? *shot*)

KittywithCoffee: This is why you don't give kittens coffee. XDD (Just messing with you, here's an update.)

CookieBirdGirl: SPOILER ALERT: The story ends with an ending that is not quite an ending. That's the best hint I can give this early into the story. c:

Ivan Braginski 0J0: Pfft, the evidence says otherwise. Read and weep, Vanya. We're coming for you…and no, we will become one with you, unless you give back Alfred! XDD

emismpunk: I think it's awesome, does that count? ^w^ Here is an update for you~

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**Wow…I honestly did not expect this from what I thought was the BELIEVED reason why I'm never allowed to write after I watch CSI shows. But this…you guys have utterly blown my mind. Thank you for doing so, you have at least 45 chapters to keep doing so. **

**Yes, 45 of murder/mystery and the beloved insanity that is RusAme. Good luck with keeping up with your sanity and out of Ivan's way. Thank you for wasting your time to read this lousy note. Have fun reading. \o/**

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**Chapter Two**:

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February 7th, 20XX

_Dear Awesome (Journal),_

_The weirdest thing happened today…I was utterly bored out of my fucking mind, and so I went to t__**he**_

_You'll never believe it. Ivan – you remember him, right? – yeah, he was there. I was like: 'Coincidence or Fate?' But then again, since I'm not into religion or whatever that came from, like Mattie, I'm going with coincidence. I mean, when I asked what he was doing, he said that he was __**ju**_

_Which is totally normal….I guess._

_Anyways, that was pretty much the highlight of my day. Not much happened, well not much compared to meeting Ivan a few days ago. That was the highlight of my WEEK. Well, for now, at least, unless something super cool happens. Like meeting I__**v**_

_Or like Tony finally coming out of my garage. I need my screwdrivers, man, that drippy faucet in the bathroom is driving me up a fucking wall at night. And my room is right next to the bathroom! But the damn a__**l***_

_Which is tot__**ally**_

_Alfred F. Jones_

_P.S. Mattie said he was leaving me tom__**orr **_

_So, I guess that means I'll be alone for a while. I might not write then, or I may, it depends o__**n**_

* * *

When Detective Kirkland reads the second entry of the old journal, he is almost drawn to how the pages are burnt. To the untrained eye, it may seem as if nothing was wrong. But to him, it just seemed like someone had carefully burned the pages to delete certain and any key information that Alfred may have written.

Information that could be used to track down the missing person's whereabouts and put his kidnapper to justice.

But then again, he may have been imagining things. He was known throughout his close friends and family as someone to take things too seriously and to look too far into small things. But then again once more, it was what made him such a great detective in his profession. It was always the little things and small measurements to hide something incriminating that he picked up on. It was these things that he looked for and used to solve a case.

Could it help him crack this case? He honestly didn't know. Pulling away with a sigh, Detective Kirkland ran a hand through his sandy blonde hair and glared at the journal. It had done nothing to him, but something about it bothered him.

The way the pages were burnt, how sometimes entries looked to be missing, the inner strings to the leather spine holding the pages altogether strained as if they had been stretched recently. The way the pages held no fingerprints but for Alfred's.

No one touched this journal but for Alfred, it seemed, then how to explain the possible missing pages and possible strategic burning? Had Alfred done this, himself? Or had someone made him – forced him to burn incriminating entries?

There was so much unsaid and yet too much told in each new entry. There were hints. The English Detective knew they were. There were pictures in the pages, little things that ranged from childish to something of a talented artist.

On this entry was a pair of roller blades, a dripping faucet pipe and an unusual smile with the caption: 'Attraction or caution?'**

Shaking a head at the jumbled clues, and missing pieces needed to make sense of them, the Detective nearly missed the sound of approaching footsteps to his desk.

"Anything?" Kirkland raised his head, and saw Officer and Detective Francis Bonnefoy. The Frenchman was known for being a flirt, outside of work, but underneath the uniform, he was a serious and very intelligent individual. He had helped Kirkland solve more than case. One case in particular was the abduction of one Chinese male.

Yao Wang, or Wang Yao, had been about to turn 26 at the time of the death. He was two months short of his birthday. He had been missing for about four years, but only found about two weeks prior to Alfred's entrance to the station. It had been upon nearly the third week; Yao was found – heavily assaulted and thoroughly beaten to death.

He was missing several fingers, half of his face was crushed in, and his entire chest cavity had been broken in. Literally, on his body, where his heart lay, was a gaping hole. But the hole wasn't life-threatening, severely painful, but not his cause of death. Yao died of overdose of opium. It was evident on the lingering residue on his face and the multiple puncture wounds in the veins of his arms.

His corpse was sent off to the morgue, after the detectives present had gone over it and compiled a report of what they could.

An inside view from the morticians, had given even Kirkland and Bonnefoy disgustful shudders. There was rock salt in his chest, possibly to induce pain and reduce the chance of proper healing. The skin over his wrists was bruised, most likely by strong leather, but his ankles were bloodied by something else. Something stronger.

Another thing found to be stuck to Yao was the tiny and somewhat unsubstantial amount of arsenic. The chemical in itself was unusual to be found. Where it was found was even stranger. It was lingering near Yao's hairline, far from the evident tan line above the male's brow, but it was a possible cause for the receding hairline.

One eye was glassed more so than the over, indicating blindness. A test found traces of bleach. Kirkland had already been disgusted, but then came the report saying that there heavy tears in Yao's anal passage. This indicated rape. Bonnefoy had had to leave the room for a long five minutes, before he grew too emotional.***

But what upset the whole station was despite how Yao had been found, there were no fingerprints. There was no evidence of anyone ever having been in the room but for Yao. The area was clean. Too clean, it was almost as if Yao had done the entire thing to himself. But the evidence was all but apparent in that none of the injuries were self-inflicted. Not even the bruising on Yao's wrists, and the bloody ankles.

They had had to close the case, even though it was only half-solved. Yao was found, he was dead, but they had no suspects. All they knew was what they had gathered from the last few people to have seen him. His adoptive brother, a South Korean male in college, who said he had been waiting on Yao to visit him; that the visit was years overdue.

There was also the grieving 'supposed' romantic attachment to a Japanese male a few streets near Yao's apartment loft. The man said he hadn't heard from Yao, after a horrible fight they had held for Yao's work ethnic and how he was wearing himself out and making himself sick. The man hadn't heard from the victim since, but when he tried to find him a few days later to apologize, he had come to a broken-in apartment and called authorities.

Kirkland looked up, snatching his mind back from the Yao Wang case. There couldn't be a connection between Alfred's abduction and Yao's murder, could there?

"Nothing," Kirkland replied to Detective Bonnefoy. The Frenchman sighed, and dragged his fingers through his hair. When the Englishman looked up, he saw the beginnings of bags underneath the other's blue eyes.

Kirkland caught himself thinking: Would it hurt to ask?

"Frog…" He began, and said nicknamed man raised a brow, as he leaned up against the wall. Kirkland looked to Alfred's journal, and then at the stale statements from Alfred's friends and the fresh report on how Alfred's safe house had been found to be haven burned down from the inside, and having taken several officers with it to the freshly blackened soil.

"Do we still have the files on the Yao Wang case?" Kirkland asked carefully. Bonnefoy frowned, "I would believe so, oui. Why? Did Alfred say anything about Yao in there?" The French officer was jumping to some conclusions, and Kirkland stopped him before the other officer winded himself too far up.

"No," Kirkland said firmly, "But I want to compare them. Did we ever recover a diary or journal in Yao's residence, like with Alfred?"

Bonnefoy's shoulders relaxed, and then his face smoothed somewhat from its dark expression. "I don't understand why you would do that, but you are an insightful person, Arthur. I'll see what I can do."

"You didn't answer my question, frog," Detective Kirkland replied, but the other officer was silent. There was a moment of terse silence, and then Bonnefoy revealed the new report from his side. He gave it to Kirkland, and then proceeded to walk away. He left with the words, "I'll see what I can do, Detective Kirkland."

The Englishman frowned, but when he looked down at the report, he found himself growing both angry and shocked. The first sentences of the report caught his attention the instant he read them:

'_The old residence of Yao Wang/Wang Yao was found to have been burnt on October 12__th__, 20XX. The entire upper floor has been incinerated, and although there was an evacuation; nine people are suspected to have been killed inside the burning people, several are being hospitalized for severe burns and heavy inhalation of the smoke._

_There has been no found evidence of the items used in the creation of the fire, and cameras are found with nothing and no one having committing the act. At the time, there are no suspects.'_

"Bloody Hell!" Kirkland cried out in rage, as he threw down the finished report on the desk. Alfred's journal jumped, and burnt pages flinted and scratched at each other as they turned. Kirkland was close to pulling his hair out. The assailant of Yao was still out there, either that or he had an accomplice.

Just as Kirkland was about to stand and find something to occupy himself with, he saw the smaller report behind Yao's residence burning. They had yet to finish gathering all of the evidence, the same of Alfred's safe haven.

Kirkland skimmed the second report, and found shock brewing across his face, as he read it:

'_Kiku Honda/Honda Kiku. Japanese Male of 23 years, and about 5 feet: He was declared missing as of October 12__th__, 20XX. His one-bedroom house (261 Imperial Avenue) was found in neat condition, the locks unbroken, but its owner missing and the remnant of a small dog by the back door.'_

"Frog!" Kirkland called, "Stop whatever you're doing. We have a house to check!" The Detective was already pulling on his coat, face contorted in frustrated rage, but he found some of his emotion shared when he saw Bonnefoy coming down the aisles, with his badge and strapping his gun to his person.

"I could hear you all the way to the break room, Arthur," Bonnefoy said lightly. His face darkened, as he said, "I'm to assume you read the reports I gave you?" Kirkland nodded, "Yes. And we need to search Mr. Honda's residence, before we do anything."

"Hopefully, it won't burn before we get there," Bonnefoy commented, and Kirkland scoffed. "Or with us inside. Ash and burns would do wonders for my complexion."

"I agree, you need more color," Bonnefoy said, as they assembled a reasonable team and gave instructions. They were already headed for a car, as he continued, "But third- and fourth-degree burns sound a bit much, don't you think?"

Kirkland's nose twitched, as he glared at the taller blonde, "Go fuck yourself, frog. I was trying to be sarcastic."

"Oh really? I was just being honest." Bonnefoy said, with wide and dramatically innocent eyes. Kirkland growled, as he shoved the other away from him, grumbling under his breath.

* * *

Pft, even as serious detectives in a horrific story, I made FrUK humor. What the Hell is wrong with me?*shot*

I…I actually feel bad for writing that about Yao. I don't think he deserved all of what he got. _**Maybe**_ he kind of deserved a good cold shoulder and an angry letter, but kidnapping/assault/rape/**WHATTHEFUCK**/murder? Nah…D:

Damn, I think I just put in a pairing in there…I can't remember what it was. Did anyone catch it? I'm not going into much detail about it, but since I love Kiku like I love my tomatoes with cheddar cheese (Don't knock it 'till you try it) I will spare him…some dignity. Not much I can do with Ivan.

Um…anyways…!

Guess who got to watch CSI again? :D

Not I, my brother was hogging the TV, and he refused to stop replaying the Olympics. He was still pissed he lost twenty bucks to me in the last event. ^_^ (It pays to have a woman's intuition, and using it for non-motherly situations.)

Anyways, more development this chapter. I hadn't expected to update this early, but yeah…I was bored, and procrastinating against this other story I've been meaning to post. Pft, no one wants to read another demon/curse story….Or do they?

Do you? I'm serious, I have no idea…(It's USUK, if anyone cares…)

**READ AND ****REVIEW****!**

***al: **If I have to explain this, I'm going to be pissed. Pray for Tony. I'm serious, pray for him. Your prayers might be answered. Pray for Tony and Kiku. *already praying*

**** 'Attraction or Caution': **Alfred is referring to the drawn smile, and asking himself/the journal on if his feelings are confused or justified.

***** 'before he grew too emotional'**: If any of us know anything about France/Francis, then you would understand why he would leave at the mention of _**THAT**_ being forced on someone. (He's the country of Love, for wurst's sake. I'm disgusted by that, I would never even think of forcing that on even my worst enemy. It's not a good experience in any situation, I don't give a damn in what country or the circumstances. I don't give a damn if he/she loves you. It's still wrong, if you didn't want it to begin with.)


	3. Case Contents: File 3

**You Can't Leave Me**

**Rating: **T

**Summary:** Horror: "You can never leave me, Fredka," He says sweetly, as he chuckles darkly. His eyes are dark, and my eyes widen. I had never made him this mad. Ivan was beyond mad. Ivan was ready for me to see our wedding bed. RusAme

_**BrooklynBabbii**_

* * *

**We have a slight heavier journal entry this time, but yeah…just some angry writing from Al about Mathew. Do not disregard it. Arthur doesn't, and it is crucial to the story that you understand why Arthur does certain things in response, because of that entry.**

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**Chapter Three**:

February 12th, 20XX

_Dear Awesome (Journal),_

_Hey, the worst thing happened the other day. I thought I had lost my fake ID. I was thinking that it was a total accident, on my part or something. Kind of…I mean, heroes never get __**hu***_

_Mathew was there, surprising, packing up his stuff, and I was like, "Dude, where's my I__**D**_

_He goes, "I tossed it. You shouldn't have it. You are on__**ly****_

_I was PISSED. Like super mad. I yelled at him. He yelled back. We yelled some more. He stopped packing his stuff, to get all up in my face. He said some pretty hurtful stuff too. Like calling me a "liar" and a "fat ass". I nearly cried, but heroes don't cry, Awesome. So I stuck it out, like a hero, and I did something to make him rethink how he looked at me. The assh__**ole.**_

_So you wanna know what I did__**?**_

_I left. I told him he didn't have to leave. I would. Then, he got even madder. He said I could never deal with responsibility and shit. He called me all sorts of things. He said some awful stuff, Awesome._

_And Pops wonders why we don't get along anymore. Tch, if you wanna know the real reason why: Mathew's just mad that my mom didn't run off for some drug, like his did. Ma stuck around, whereas he told me that his mom left his dad and pretty much fell off the face of the Earth for about ten years._

_She's still alive, in rehab or back on the streets, I think. I don't know. She only saw me once, trying to get Mathew to give her more money. I had answered the door, and then Mattie came in behind me. She freaked out__** and **_

_She just ran, after her own son said he was going to call the cops. Like she was scared o__**r **__something. It was pretty messed up. But yeah, whatever about her, Mathew's just mad about his sucky childhood and how I was pretty much given an awesome one with my Ma and __**Pops.*****_

_..Hm, I can't remember what else I was going to say…Damn, don't you just hate when that happens to you?_

_Alfred F. Jon__**es**_

_P.S.I remember now. Tony came out. He told me: "Snowflakes are pretty, since you can't see the co__**ld.**_

_Which is totally bogus. I can see my breath in the winter, if it's cold enough. Pffft, sometimes, I wond__**er **__how he's considered intelligent life but says I'm not. I'm sooo much smarter than hi__**m!**_

* * *

Looking at the third entry of the journal, Detective Kirkland found out three things that he knew would be the key to the case breaker, later on.

One: This "Mathew" character was in some way close to Alfred, but if this entry was any consideration, then maybe they weren't as close as they had once been. He made a mental note to brief himself up on this young man. Possibly have one of the team or Francis look him up, and find some of his records.

Two: "Mathew" had a mother who was a drug addict. Kirkland had dealt with drug addicts before, and their affairs were anything if not completely messy. Alfred hadn't described how the mother looked, which left a lot to think about on what "Mathew's" mother could have needed more money for.

Three: Alfred claimed that he was leaving Mathew, whereas in the beginning he had described Mathew as the one leaving him. Kirkland frowned, feeling some of the boredom being relieved of him as he thought on what connection that there could have been. He had looked up Alfred's records: he had no blood siblings. He was also reported missing as 19 years of age—

Kirkland's eyes sprang open, as he blurted, "Frog? How old is Alfred? 19 or older?" He turned somewhat in the passenger seat of the car, as Detective Bonnefoy stopped to obey a traffic light on red. The French officer blinked, "What?"

Kirkland repeated himself, and then clarified, "Was he declared missing as 19, or is he of the age 19, now?" He paused, waiting for an answer that Bonnefoy could give him. The Frenchman opened his mouth, as they waited for the light to change to continue on their way, and then he frowned and closed it.

Finally, he said, as he looked over to Kirkland, "The papers I was given, the newer ones that we received a few weeks ago, said that he had a birthday in July. He's nearly 20 now."

Kirkland nodded stiffly, and then said, "Alfred said in his journal," he held up the book in question, "that he had a fake ID." Bonnefoy frowned, as the English detective continued. "Eighteen year olds don't use fake IDs, Francis. With as many minors as we used to have to pick up from the upper-aged bars and clubs, you should know that better than anyone else."

Detective Bonnefoy was silent, and then he turned back around. His hands were tight on the steering wheel. His eyes were cold and ice-like. Kirkland saw the signs of anger brewing within the other and spoke aloud, "I'm to assume you realize that we're dealing with a possible pedophile into kidnapping."

"A bastard into ephebophilia," the French officer growled, and Kirkland gave him a look to elaborate. Detective Bonnefoy made a comment to himself, in Soft French, and then said aloud, "it means he goes for the late adolescents, the older teens who have hit puberty. He's still a pedophile, however."

Kirkland nodded silently, going back to the journal, to mark the page with a faded once-red slip of paper. He sighed, "This guy, this…man," he meant to use another word, but felt the need otherwise to be a gentleman and bite his tongue. "He—"

"Is damned sick," Bonnefoy said, as the light changed to green. "That's what he is." Kirkland looked over to the other detective, and thought somewhere in the back of his mind if saying what he had found had been a good idea. It was, he realized, the other would have found out soon enough.

Then, he remembered something. "Oh, right," Kirkland began. Detective Bonnefoy continued to drive, but made an effort to glance over once to show that he was listening.

"I want you to look up someone for me," the English detective continued, as he skimmed a few pages for the name. He found it, "A mister in the vague area of Alfred's old apartment, if you will."

"Do we have a name?" Detective Bonnefoy asked, as he made a turn and then continued straight on the road, until they came to an intersection and then went right. Kirkland paused, as he practiced the name on his tongue, silently, and then said, "A young man by the name of Mathew Williams."

"Mathew Williams?" Bonnefoy repeated, and Kirkland raised a brow.

"You know him?" The English detective asked, and Bonnefoy nodded. "Oui, I used to know him a little back in high school. He skipped a few grades, coming from Canada, I think." Kirkland seemed to look disinterested and Bonnefoy caught the hint. "He's connected to Alfred?"

Kirkland tapped a slim finger to the journal, "Alfred said that Mathew had a troubled childhood and that they had been arguing. Mathew was leaving him or something."

Bonnefoy stopped at another red light, "That's not right…" Kirkland's face went from disinterested and bored to slightly irritable, as he snapped, "And why not?"

Bonnefoy went, as the light turned green, and then down a few streets before he said, "Because, if we're not talking about the same Mathew Williams. The Mathew, I know, was nearly killed in a three car pile up. He moved a while ago." Kirkland's eyes widened, as Bonnefoy continued, "He's been a bit of a recluse, since then."

Kirkland sat back in his seat, even though Detective Bonnefoy said, "We're here: 261 Imperial Avenue." It took a minute, but Kirkland got out, and right as he did:

The press came out of hiding.

"Mr. Detectives, do you have any leads on the whereabouts of Mr. Honda?"

"Mr. Detectives, can you tell us anything?"

"Was it a murder, Mr. Detectives? Have you ruled out that there might be a slight chance of a homicide?"

"Has Alfred Jones' records changed from 'missing' to 'possible homicide?"

So many damned questions went tossed at both detectives as they tried to calmly walk up the front porch. They were mindful of the path, where a few investigators were trying to detect anything suspicious.

_Right_, Kirkland thought sourly, _like there was going to be DNA evidence in the lilies._ He shook his head tiredly, trying to focus on the here and now. He needed to focus. He took a look around, as he put on the pair of gloves that one of the investigators had handed to him.

But it felt off….something was off.

"Hey Detectives!" Both Detective Kirkland and Bonnefoy turned on their heel from the stairs to see a young woman in her mid-twenties, Detective Héderváry. "I think we found something."

Both detectives ran over, careful of the other people working and found what Héderváry pointed to. It was the remnants of the small dog. But was more important was the inflicted wound that sent the little canine to Heaven: a busted head. There was a small arc of blood on the wall siding.

Kirkland's eyes narrowed, as Detective Héderváry said, "I don't think someone like Mr. Honda owns a blunt object."

Bonnefoy was the one to speak up, "What makes you think it was a blunt object?" The Hungarian female gave him a look, and pointed to it again. "Mr. Honda is missing a sword in the bedroom." Kirkland made to open his mound, but the female officer shushed him. "Even the butt of a sword can't do that, it's not big enough.

"So what did do it?" Kirkland asked, and Héderváry's mouth became a flat line. She whistled and waved at one of the investigators. They nodded grimly, and the shuffled over to retrieve something. A moment later, an evidence bag was brought, it was a rather large one too.

"The only thing I can think of right now," she said, as she held up the bag, "is this right here. Mr. Honda's sheath."

Bonnefoy made to say, "But you said a sword didn't –"

Kirkland cut him off, "The sheath is put over the sword to prevent injury to wielder, when it's not being used."

Héderváry nodded, "Wherever Mr. Honda is, I can already say that it's not good for him." The other detectives frowned, and she continued, "Go look in the third room, by the bathroom. Look to your right of the door."

When they didn't move, she pushed them in the direction and made them. They went all the way down the hall, and to the bathroom. It looked clean. It was clean, but it felt off. Héderváry nodded, and then looked away. "Look to your right, by the mirror."

Bonnefoy was the first to look, and saw it: A piece of white kimono…with blood. But more importantly what was found in the trash can that was unexpected by even Héderváry, who started to fuss about having checked everything in the room. It was a big hint: It looked like a rusty key…

…But rust was never that red.

Kirkland took the key with careful hands, and then said softly, "Now what?" They looked to the female officer and she rolled her eyes. "There's only one locked door in this whole house, besides the front and back door. That's the shed out back."

They gave her another look, and she huffed and crossed her arms. "I thought it seemed weird, so I went and checked it. But it was locked. I think that's the key…"

They gave her another look, but it wasn't directed at her, what was behind her. Something was off. But thinking they were looking at her, she glared at them, "I had gloves, and I followed protocol, you assholes." Kirkland continued to look at her, and then said, "Why did you come in here?"

She blinked, "I thought it smelled funny. Like weird funny." Bonnefoy seemed to pale in the bathroom light, "Like trash funny or like…_weird _funny?"

Héderváry frowned, and then her eyes widened, "Oh shit… Everyone, get out of the house, _now_!" Kirkland was already moving out, and shouting, "Everyone! Out of the house! Now! That's an order!"

"Please, merci, you need to leave immediately!" Bonnefoy said, and then he passed by a small closet door. He could smell it more clearly now. It was in the bathroom. He silently swore, they were too many people in the house. No wonder it was so clean. No wonder it felt off in the house. "Now, you need to leave _now_!"

"But, we're not done here!" An investigator with a slight case of bad acne complained, "There's still the upstairs to check!"

"There's not gonna be an upstairs for very long, now _move_!" Héderváry snapped, and then she shoved him to the front door. "Hurry up, there's a gas leak-!"

"A what-?" The investigator began to say, but he was cut off by a small sound. It was barely heard by anyone, not even those by the bathroom. It was so soft. But the sound was from within the bathroom, it sounded like something had just caught against something inside of metal. Like a tiny click.

Too late.

A mere second later, it was like a puff of air had been emitted, and then – a massive explosive erupted form that side of the house.

Kirkland began shoving people to the front, trying not to look behind him and not to trip from the oncoming blast of air. This was going to hurt. "Run, now!"

Héderváry screamed, many people screamed. But there were a lot of people not screaming: particularly those by the bathroom. They had been too close.

There was the sound of coughing, people and objects falling down. There was the sound of someone crying, and then someone calling out to Detective Kirkland. Somebody moaned in pain.

It was Detective Kirkland.

He had knocked into the stove, his head having made quite a dent, and his forehead bleeding painfully. He looked up with bleary eyes, just in time to catch something: The kitchen cabinet was open. It was full of aerosol cleaners. There was a evil smiley on the cabinet door, looking at it.

It read: "_Surprise!"_

"Fuck," he swore, as he tried to climb to his feet. Someone was helping him up. It was Francis, his lip was bloody and there was what looked like a nasty burn on his left hand. God thing he was a righty. The fire wasn't even half was big as it was going to be. "We need to get out of here," he said.

"What, what's wrong?" Francis asked, and then he looked over. He saw the cans. He saw what Arthur didn't. There was a little black piece of something _bad_ under the sheet of paper, a little black _bad_ thing with a blinking red light.

"Fucking Hell," he swore, and then there was running to the front door. There were some of the last few to make it. A mere breath after they stepped foot in the outside air:

The glass of the windows seemed to suck in, and then bellowed out with a great big _CRASH. _

"What the fuck!?" Someone cried out, and the reports seemed to swarm in from outside the street. Kiku Honda's home was on fire. People were still screaming inside. The door was untouchable. The fire was being consumed in flames.

"Holy shit…" Kirkland breathed, as he held his side. He looked down. Well, no wonder he felt dizzy. That was going to require stitches, if not a lot of bed rest. His knees were already going down, and osmehting was sticking him in the back. His head really hurt.

Francis was swearing in French, as he tried to keep the other on his feet. Kirkland laughed darkly, "The mother fucker played us. He set a trap. Well-played…" he whispered, as his eyes felt sluggish and his breathing slowed.

Kirkland thought he saw Héderváry lying on the ground, and someone yelling for 911. The back of her uniform was nearly gone, and her entire back was covered with black dots, blood and a lot of burned flesh. She had been almost too close.

But still. She wasn't moving.

Kirkland scoffed, "Damn it, he set a trap." He was going down, still repeating the same thing. "He wanted us to come here. He set a bloody _damned trap." _The last he saw, before his eyes closed, was the sight of the burning house on 261 Imperial Avenue, and how he could have sworn that he saw black figures looking at him from the burning windows.

It looked like Hell.

* * *

I told you to pray for Kiku. No one prayed.

So: in response, no one was spared. :D (Ivan, you mastermind, you~)

Do not worry: the next chapter is coming next week, hopefully, and you guys won't be so mad at me! :D (hopefully…)

This can actually happen. There have been cases where a site is thought to be clean, there's a distraction (the "rusty" key) and then the cops smell the gas leak. But in some, it's not noticed and the site goes up with everyone inside. :(

But I opted for the better one: There was a gas leak, and it took SOME of the house. (Yes, a gas leak can cause an explosion. In the right conditions, you bet your ass it can.) Also, aerosol is VERY flammable. Which is why there was a bomb stuck under a smiley (ha-ha) right in the same vicinity. Certain bombs go off in response to swift changes in the air.

Like the gas leak. When the fire came, it blew air in the direction of the bomb: thus: KA-BOOM.

I hoped I explained it right. I read about some serial killer who loved bombs and that's what he did. (They never caught this guy either…I'm glad I'm in Mid-West.) :/

P.S I found this new show called "Law & Order: Special Victims Unit" and I was taking notes. Then, in walks my brother and he goes: "…What the fuck, are you planning to kill someone?"

Me: "Kinda."

Him: "…Remember to wear gloves, B. Always wear gloves."

I don't know why he said that…I just thought it was kind of funny. ^_^

**READ AND REVIEW!**

***** **get hu: **Alfred means heroes never get hurt. But yeah…Superman died. Of Cancer. Rethink that, Al.

**** only**: **Mathew is speaking to Alfred's age. Hint hint. Big shit-fest coming up about this.

***** and Pops: **FOR GOTT'S SAKE, ALFRED IS NOT TALKING ABOUT THE DAMNED CEREAL. "POPS" IS ANOTHR NAME FOR "DAD/FATHER" IN COUNTRY SLANG OR SOMETHING. (Some of my old friends down the Mason-Dixon call their dads that. I don't get it, but then again, I call my dad "Vati", which is like German for "Daddy"…:/** )**

**P.S.S: The next chappie is Alfred's POV/memories of the Incident. Be ready to get...something. :/**


	4. Case Contents: Victim Perspective 1

**You Can't Leave Me**

**Rating: **T

**Summary:** Horror: "You can never leave me, Fredka," He says sweetly, as he chuckles darkly. His eyes are dark, and my eyes widen. I had never made him this mad. Ivan was beyond mad. Ivan was ready for me to see our wedding bed. RusAme

_**BrooklynBabbii**_

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**As promised, though a bit on the late side, here is the new chapter. :)**

**It's a journal entry, with significance, and then a POV from Alfred. If you guys like this one as much as I hope you do, then you won't really have much to be disappointed in the future.**

**This is still rated T.**

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**Chapter Four**:

February 14th, 20XX

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_Dear Awesome (Journal),_

_Mattie and I made up, and he promised to stay, if I didn't do what I did to make him mad again…I told him I would…But, I didn't really promise, all I said was that I would try to keep him happy…Then, I went an__**d**_

_I messed up. Really ba__**d, I**_

_I found my fake ID in his room, while he was out to class, and….I said I was going out to a friend's to study for a test…I lied to hi__**m.**_

_I went out to a bar, and got drunk off my ass. I woke up somewhere else, across town, and I had to run home before Mattie woke up. I told Mattie that me and my friend had gotten carried away from studying and ended up fooling around, and__**…**_

_I'm sorry, Awesome! I'm a fucking idiot, but I can't…I'm SORRY. Tell Mattie, I'm sorry. I'm really sorr__**y…***_

_Alfred F. Jon__**es**_

* * *

"Alfred."

Said American's head snapped up, as his heart sped to a near fatal hum, and then almost reluctantly slowed down, as he saw a familiar facial outline in the dark room. The American's voice was almost hoarse, a bit raw, as he struggled to keep silent and raise himself off the ground.

A barely audible whimper of pain, and then a soft whine, as the victim felt a softer hand try to take his wrist to assist him up. At his calls of pain, the hand let go of his wrist and instead, took his hand. This caused Alfred to jerk back with a pained hiss and a bark of agony.

Tears began to well up in his blue eyes – Well, the one that was still working welled up, the other was so black and bruised, and swollen shut, it was a miracle that Alfred could still honestly say he could see out of it.

He gulped, slightly audibly, while he whimpered slightly, using a heavily shaking hand to brush the overgrown bangs from his face. He sighed, the sound shaky, as he spoke through dry, cracked and bloodied lips, "I-Is he go-gone?" The nearly broken American's voice almost sound like it was a broken sob, as he looked at the face in the darkness.

"…Alfred," the voice began, and arms opened. Alfred looked away and down at the ground, trying to move his leg. It pained him, and he gave up. At least, one of his arms were still able to be used to weakly reach out in the dark to put up a hand for the other to stop where he was.

Two of his fingers were broken, and his palm was bloody beneath a torn piece of fabric used to vainly stop the bleeding. It was dirty fabric, and the hand was slightly discolored and swollen, indicating a possible chance of infection, if not bruising with or without inflammation.

"D-don't…T-Toris-s," Alfred managed to sputter, despite having lost a small portion of his tongue due to biting it off with his previous (now-evicted) front teeth. He was lucky that they were his old baby teeth, and that his adult teeth would come soon.

At least, he hoped that they would come.

"You need to get cleaned up," Toris, the voice in the dark identified, said. His own voice was albeit more steady, but carrying a tone of the living dead. Toris may have been seemingly physically healthier, but he was deader inside than Alfred already was.

This, at it was, was quite a statement.

Alfred gradually took his hand down, cradling his arm close, and then replied softly, "Tor-Toris-s…Wh-where is A-Art-thur?"

Toris was silent, and then a shuffling on the ground was heard, as the emotionally-battered man said, "I'm sure that he is still looking for you, Alfred."

Alfred made a choked sound, "D-do you …" And then a hacking sound, as Alfred's body seized and his head bowed and lunged forwards. His hair had grown past his ears, over his neck, and shielded his face from view. It somewhat spared him of the indignity of being seen vomiting up what he had been told to swallow the night before.

"_All of it, Fredka, every last single drop of it."_

Alfred gagged, as the last few spews left him breathing raggedy, and he made a whimper. "I-I wann-na…be fr-free." A single blue eye looked up in the dark at the gently approaching figure. A small sliver of light made in to reveal the vulgarly half-wrapped face.

It was Toris.

"Alfred…" Toris began, as he used a hand, a hand severed of its middle and thumb. "He can't hold us forever…"

Alfred tried to laugh, barely managed to even utter a scoff over another hack of swallowed disgust. The American looked up at Toris, "Be-because we can't l-leave." He looked away, finally allowing tears to fall from his single eye, "We can ne-ver leave…"

Alfred made another choked sound, and Toris reached out with his disabled hand to brush away Alfred's hair. There was the horrid sight of a dark bruise the size and shape of a large male hand. Toris' eyes widened and Alfred made another sound, and then he looked up to say, "He s-s-ays he's gon-na k-kill me, if-f I le-leave."

Toris didn't say anything, as Alfred continued, "I to-ld him I wanted to see Mattie…" Alfred was openly sobbing again. Shaking his head the best he could with the bruises, he managed to say, "He said that if I left, or even opened my mouth to say anything, that Mattie would never even get to scream…"

Toris was silent, and then he looked away, "Like Kiku…"

Alfred sobbed, "It wa-wasn't my f-fault, all I s-said was –" He clenched his jaw, painfully, as he swallowed spit into his dry throat. "A-all I did was cus-ss him out-t. I to-told him I was going to run aw-away, again, and find so-someone who could k-keep me…"

"Like Kiku," the ex-officer emphasized, and Alfred tried to hide his cough in his arm. The waves of pain still racked his body, and a few droplets of last night still made it past his lips again. Out of a subconscious movement, his bitten and healing tongue licked it off and then, he grimaced.

"You left me once," Toris said, flatly. Alfred nodded, biting his lip with his teeth and bloody gums.

"I d-did…" The American said, as he looked up, "I-I'm so sorry, To-Toris! I didn't th-think he would a-actually t-turn on you! I'm so so-sorry!"

"But you still left," Toris growled, as he seemed like he was getting up, without Alfred. The other reached out, and his fingers managed to find purchase on the ragged officer uniform pants leg.

"I said I was _fucking sorry_!" Alfred shouted, tears welling up in his anger. He coughed harshly, but continued anyways, "I-I s-s-said I was s-sorry for that, I told hi-him –!"

"Sorry won't _fix my damned face_!" Toris cried out, as he slapped the hand away, and turned in the dark. Even while Alfred could partially move, Toris could not. A near-fatal break at his spine had made it all possible. He knew for a fact that he might never walk again without some form or kind of treatment on his legs. The nerves were probably dead, for all he knew. "He nearly _killed_ me, because he thought his 'beloved Sunflower' left him! _I_ was nearly killed that night, not _you_!"

Alfred winced, retracting his hand and cradling it like he was a child who had their hand slapped for stealing from the candy bowl. Toris continued to shriek, "If it hadn't been for all the vodka he drank, after you left, then I would have been dead!"

Alfred looked up, still trying to win the argument with his rage. It was all he had left. Rage: it would be the thing, the fuse, which he needed to finally overcome this battle he was in. "D-do you kn-know how many ti-times I could have b-been the s-s-same?"

"Shut the Hell up, you little whore!" Toris screamed out, in blind rage, as he used his one good hand, though crippled with a poorly healed third-degree burn, to reach across and slap Alfred across the face. The young blonde's face was met with a loud _smack_!

Alfred made a sound of choking and he spat something out on the ground. Toris continued to vent his rage, "I'm here, because I tried to save your ass! Arthur said you were an innocent caught up with a bad guy!"

Alfred was crying, guilt, hurt and pain doing a number for emotions and state of mind. He just wanted to go home. "I-Ivan…he hurt m-me; that makes him b-bad, he wa-wanted to use me!" his sobs were getting me angry, as he snapped at the ex-officer, "Y-you were su-supposed to protect m-me!"

Toris glared at him, "You sold me out!"

Alfred tried to deny it, though he wouldn't meet the other's eyes, "No, I d-didn't! He _broke_ in! He-He's crazy, mentally fucking insane, he's fucking nuts!" He hid his face with his own good hand, and tried to wipe his eyes and nose. Everything was so messed up. He was the victim, and Ivan his assaulter.

Why couldn't things be easy?

"When he was inside the house," Toris barked, reciting off his memory, "you let him in!" Alfred flinched, and whimpered as he tried to cover his eyes and repeat his denial with greater volume. His voice cracked, and he coughed more, but Toris kept right on, "He didn't break in, there were no signs of forced entry, you let him in! Why? Because he fucking _apologized_."

There was silence, as Toris shook his head in both disgust and pity. "You helped him beat me…When I was sent to help you."

"He-he beat me too!" Alfred tried, "He hurt m-me for leaving!"

"And that makes it right?" Toris countered, "That makes us even? That undoes that fact that you used a damned pan to down me, when I was trying to corner him? When I was trying to _help_ you?"

"_Shut the fuck up_!" Alfred screamed, "You don't know _anything_!" Toris was silent, he didn't make a comment, as Alfred sniffled, and then muttered, "He _hurt_ me… The officers said I could go home, if I told them and made him go away for a long time."

"You filed a complaint," Toris clarified to the other, "And yet, still saw the guy on a _regular_ damned basis." Alfred was on the verge of sobbing again, as he shook his head, and tried to deny it.

Even thought it was true. Toris was right. Alfred wasn't the 'poor victim' that he had thought he had painted himself to be, with Ivan. But Toris knew; he was the only one of the three officers to be spared, because Ivan wanted someone else to make sure that Alfred stayed.

If he left, then Ivan would kill Toris. Toris had a family, a little blonde boyfriend with an adopted daughter from Belgium. Alfred didn't have anyone, his parents and he hadn't been on speaking terms in a long time, and as far as he knew, Mathew hadn't even though to help look for him or put up posters. He hated Alfred too.

They all hated him.

"Did you tell Arthur?" Toris accused, his tone venomous, as Alfred cringed and glared at the floor. "He thinks you're kidnapped!" No one could understand. They weren't even trying. They weren't even _trying_ to understand!

"I-I was kidnapped!" Alfred defended, as he tried to vainly glare back at the other. He took a moment to cough into his hand, and didn't try to bother himself with looking at what he had spat up again. He didn't want to see it. "He took me when I was _16_!"

"Because you told him a false age," Toris reprimanded. He didn't care at the moment that he was in a sense defending the very person who had nearly burst his head open on the very floors that he was sitting on. "He doesn't even know your _real_ age. You used an alias, you lied."

There was silence, as Alfred cringed and shook his head once more and then turned his back to Toris. He didn't want to see the truth, the truth that he was wrong. That he was just as guilty as Ivan. "If he finds out," Toris continued, "then you're really dead."

"He _hurt_ me," Alfred tried again, and kept on, "He said he loved me, but he _hurt_ me."

"And you let him," Toris said, flatly, and then added on to spite the other, "For _years_."

Alfred slapped his hand across the floor, and kicked up a small cloud. He was crying again, as he used his gritty hand to wipe his face once more. "I just – I ju-just wanted for someone _not_ to hate me…" He said, through his sniffles, as he turned back to Toris. "He pro-promised…he said he was sorry, afterwards. It was only this once, and he would never do it again."

His eyes were so wet, so full of guilty tears and pain, but the ex-officer kept right on grilling him over the verbal flame. "But he did."

_All of those broken promises_, Alfred thought, that I believed, as he nodded.

"And you stayed," Toris said, flatly. Alfred sniffled once more, hugging himself and feeling the bruise on his cheek start to chafe at his dirty jeans. But he still, he managed to nod. He had stayed…

"He said he lo-loved me…" Alfred tried to defend, and he sniffled, as he wiped his face again, "He said I could never leave him either, because he knew I loved him too."

"But he beat you."

"I tried to leave," Alfred said, his voice growing softer and more broken, as he looked away, even though the other couldn't see his tears in the darkness. "He said he loved me. He _promised _he did. He promised that he wouldn't get mad at me again."

"He didn't keep his promises."

"He said he _loved_ me, damn it," Alfred swore, as he gripped his hair, "He promised." He shook his head, as he said, "You could never understand: He _promised_. Just like he promised to kill you, if I ever left him now."

* * *

Al…you poor baby. :(

Al, victim now or consensual yesterday, you still a ho; Ivan's still a bastard, and Toris grew a pear. :/ (What a way to go, B, I may now jump off a figurative cliff. X.X)

Because a few people thought to pray for Alfred and his well-being, in the last chapter's lovely reviews—

You all were spared of the M-rated content….kinda :3 (Haha, you all are probably pissed at everyone now.) Pffft, I know I would be. I told you guys that I would put you through Hell with this story in the beginning.

I kept my promise~ ;)

**READ AND REVIEW!**

***** **sorry…*: **A huge hint of what is yet to come. I am going to be pushing some buttons next chapter and then few after it, REALLY HARD. (In fact, I'm going to be pushing a lot of buttons with this entire story.)


	5. Case Contents: File 4

**You Can't Leave Me**

**Rating: **T

**Summary:** Horror: "You can never leave me, Fredka," He says sweetly, as he chuckles darkly. His eyes are dark, and my eyes widen. I had never made him this mad. Ivan was beyond mad. Ivan was ready for me to see our wedding bed. RusAme

_**BrooklynBabbii**_

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**Again, I gave you guys a bone and told you an inch, and then you take that bone and go for a mile. I can't thank you enough for all of the lovely reviews and favorites. It means a lot to me! :)**

**So without further ado, whatever that means, please enjoy this newest segment and the shit load of drama going down at the crime scene! :o**

**EDIT: JESUS. Where the fucks have I been? Damn…**

**._.**

**Sorry for the delay, but things are getting back on track at my place, so updates should come smoother. ^_^**

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**Chapter Five**:

February 20th, 20XX

_Dear Awesome (Journal),_

_Mattie hasn't found out about the scars yet, so I think I'm in the clear for now. Ah well, I hadn't been looking for attention from him. Just a little pain for my pain, too bad __**that**_

_But it's all okay, n__**o**_

_I don't need to do it anymore. Everything's going to be okay. Mattie and I are going to get along, and I'll call my parents to let them know that Ma can calm down since I called her. I can't believe __**I**_

_Alfred F. Jones_

_P.S. I'm not going to sneak out either. Mattie deserves better than my lying ass, and I think he knows it too. He doesn't come around the house as much, and when we do see each other, he barely says anything. I think he's still mad at me, Awesome, and I can't blame him either. I would be mad at the person who made that big a bruise on my face __**too.**_

* * *

Detective Bonnefoy slipped the worn bookmark back into the previous entry to feign the book hadn't been touched, as he heard a groaning begin to stir in the hospital bed next to him. He eyed the monitors connected to his partner warily, not wanting to trust them, even though they only reflected how his partner's vitals were doing at that time.

Detective Kirkland hissed in pain, as he tried to open his eyes. His hair was splayed across his face, and he huffed to blow some of it away, only for it to come back. He scoffed, when the hair predictably came back to flop comfortably over his eyes. He groaned. The Detective braced for pain, as he turned his sore neck to eye the man sitting next to him.

"Well, hello there, mon ami," Bonnefoy greeted, smiling thinly, whilst still trying to read the monitors to make sure that it was safe for Kirkland to be awake. The French detective had some bad news. News meaning orders, and bad translating to 'Kirkland was going to throw something in a fiery rage' – sort of bad.

"Fr-Frog…?" Kirkland wearily blurted, and then blinked away the drug-induced fog. His tongue was dry, his neck was sore, and the lower right side of his hip to his lower calf were itching and burning like a bloody bitch. How long had he been out? How long had he been under? Would this have side effects? What were the side effects? Speaking of sides, when could he look at what had happened to him?

"Oui, yes, Arthur," Bonnefoy said, and his hands slowly found the paper in his jacket. He didn't want to have to be the one to do this. Even if he was Kirkland's partner, he didn't want to have to be the only one to see his face and hear his words. But sometimes, that was how Life was and Fate worked. You didn't have much of a choice when a decision, not a choice or opportunity, was presented to him.

"What…what happened?" Kirkland asked, trying to turn on the side that didn't throb as if his very blood were attempting to escape the very pores of his skin. He managed to manage his breathing from a throaty gasp of air to the more respectable choke of air. It wasn't much better, but at least, he didn't look like a fish out of water.

"Ah," Bonnefoy began, leaning back in his hair and running a hand through his hair. He still cringed as he felt the hair being too short. He had had to cut the charred ends. This left him with his hair at the ends of his ears versus when it had been at the nape of his neck. It still kind of pissed him off, even though it was petty, Francis had been proud of his hair. "Before I answer that, I need to ask you a question: Do you remember anything?"

Kirkland licked his lips, but his tongue was too dry to do much good. "I think…Yes, there was an," His thick eyebrows came together as the Brit furrowed his brow, "I think there was an explosion…yes, a fire."

Bonnefoy nodded. Good. His partner didn't have memory loss. However, that wasn't to say that wasn't some crucial damage to his brain. Héderváry, although conscious now, was going to be in the hospital for longer. Despite over twenty stitches to her back, multiple surgeries to correct her leg and the right side of her hip, it had been found that some of her cells had a potential for cancer from the blast. She was going to be out of the force for a good while, until she was deemed fit for work. It might be never.

Looking back to his friend, the French officer thought of how lucky he had been. Only a few stitches to his hand, a few burns –nothing over a second degree- and then a bad bruise doing well in the healing process under his jaw. And there was Kirkland: About fourteen stitches up his thigh to the bottom of his ribs, a few third degree burns over his stitches that had to have been sawed down or removed, and then a mild head wound on his left temple and a small crack to the back of his skull. He was a walking miracle, him and Héderváry.

And Bonnefoy still had to deliver the bad news.

"Frog," Kirkland demanded, trying to sound forceful despite the dryness in his throat. "Tell me. What is on that paper?"

Bonnefoy sighed, as he handed over the paper, "The same one I had to give to Héderváry. The Chief is putting the Jones case away until further development or the surface of more evidence, due to severe damage to the force and to eliminate the risk of further causalities."

The paper was snatched from his hands faster than the stitching in the British officer's side allowed, and said man grit his teeth as he angrily read the paper. He read it again. And then he read it a third time. After skimming it a fourth time, Kirkland said, "Frog…Is this serious? Can- can he do this?"

Bonnefoy nodded sadly, "Oui. He can. I'm sorry. The State had offered the case to the FBI to solve, while you were asleep –

"What!" Kirkland shouted, making too quick a move to sit up, and the Brit actually barked a swear as the stitching started to tear at his skin. Bonnefoy tried to help him lie back down, but the Brit was stubborn and tried to punch him away. "No! No! No! They can' do that!"

The Brit finally saw the Frenchman's hair and gingerly touched it. He hadn't seen it so short, since the two had been in college. "Francis…your hair, it's so short…"

Francis quickly took the Englishman's hand from his hair, finding it insulting for some reason, despite how the Brit was missing a good square of his own hair in the back of his head where doctors had done a minor stitching to speed up the healing process of the head wound.

"It's alright, Kirkland," Bonnefoy said, as he tried to take back the paper. But the Brit wouldn't let him have it back. He was being stubborn, as the French officer had known he would be.

"No, it's not," Kirkland said tightly. He had seen the look in the other's eyes after he had mentioned his hair length. The Frog was bitter. He was mad about this too. Kirkland tried to play on that, by saying, "The Feds can't handle their own affairs, and they won't be able to handle bloody next to shit on this case, like you and I and our task force! They can't take this case from us! We were so close to finding something! We have that key!"

"It melted," Bonnefoy said darkly, as he sat back down in his chair. Even his usual bright blue eyes looked angry and dark. Kirkland paused, blinking in shock. "Wait-what? It melted? But I thought someone had it, before we left –"

"That person went up in flames," Bonnefoy said, and he took a small notepad from his inner coat pocket. He read aloud, "Casualty Number 12: Carlos Machado, Cuban-American, 34; Father of two, divorced and single parent. He lived about 3 miles from the hospital; Died on impact of the blast." Bonnefoy sighed, once again running his hand through his hair only to wince again. "I knew him a bit, his wife had left him for a younger and slimmer guy, he said. He had a five year old and fourteen year old, both the prettiest girls you could have ever seen. Both Daddy's little angel, good kids."

Kirkland had nothing to say, and so he let Bonnefoy read him the list of every casualty on his notepad. All 34 of them.

It was quiet in the room for a long time, Kirkland wrapping and unwrapping the sheets around his hands and his law enforcement partner staring off into space. It was with a dead tone that the Brit asked, "What about the house?"

"Burnt to the ground," Bonnefoy supplies simply, "Again. We didn't even get the evidence bags inside. One news team threatened to sue because their cameraman had been among the casualties and he had been inside the house. They claimed we hadn't followed protocol and had led innocent people to their death by checking the area to be able to deem it secure."

The French officer scoffed, "Bastards. I hadn't been the one to open the door for them to get in. Why the Hell am I the wrong one?" Kirkland said nothing, continuing to wrap his hand. He saw the burns there and paused. He looked to his partner's hand. They matched. That must have been the hand that Bonnefoy used to save him with.

"…What about the task force?" Kirkland asked, and after a moment, he asked, "What will we do?" Bonnefoy said nothing. He continued to stare off into space. He looked as if he was seeing something he loathed right in front of him. But all there was to look at was a painting of ship and a cheap vase of plastic yellow flowers. Unless the French officer had something against the awful décor, then there was nothing to be looking that angry.

"Francis?" Kirkland tried, and he tried to reach out to the other. Bonnefoy flinched, as the Brit touched his arm. Kirkland pulled his arm away quickly, as if burned, but only mildly insulted. Bonnefoy sighed, and in his way of apologizing, he tried to answer the Brit's previous question, "I don't know, Arthur…I just don't know…"

But Kirkland knew. He knew. He knew that the other didn't want to give the case anymore than him. The FBI couldn't take their case. They had been so close, so close, only to be led to a trap. If only they had found something, Kirkland thought, but then he remembered, "Wait. Frog. What about the shed? Is it still standing?"

Bonnefoy frowned, shaking his head of the image of the Cuban officer's little girls from his mind. At least, he wouldn't have to be the one to tell them. Now that would be cruelty. "What are you talking about, Kirkland?" The French officer was exasperated. He wanted nothing more than just go home and sleep for the next week. Maybe a week and a half.

"The shed," Kirkland repeated. He could feel just the slightest twinge of hope through him. "Is it still standing, not blown to smithereens?" The French officer paused, and then thought about when his superior had confronted him. He tried to recall the image of the remains of the house in his mind. When he did, his eyes sprang open. The shed had been untouched.

"Mon Dieu," he breathed. "The shed had been standing." He looked at Kirkland, "It is still standing…"

"We need to get over there," Kirkland said, and then he paused, looking down at himself. "Better yet, how about you go and take pictures. I might have to sit this investigation out." His face was only grim for a brief moment, before it turned to a slight grin. "But I won't miss the next one, Frog. So don't get too cocky."

"I'm not the one getting cocky," Bonnefoy said, shaking his head. The Brit seriously thought the hospital would let him out so soon? He was a fool…But then again, he was also Arthur Kirkland. The young man had once taken a double round of bullets to his upper shoulder, during his first few years and had avoided paralyzing himself by some sheer amount of godly will and survived despite the odds. A few burns and stitches should be a practice run for him. "You're the one still under bed rest for the next few weeks, remember?"

The twinkle was back to Kirkland's eyes, "Please. They will be begging to get rid of me after tomorrow." Bonnefoy stared at him for a long moment, and then said, "Please don't do anything stupid." He made to rise and then leave the room, as the other called out, "No promises."

Just as the French officer was about to leave the room, he had a whisper. "What was that?" He asked, and Kirkland managed a thin smile, feeling the drugs he had just pushed a button for begin to do their job quickly. His eyes were already drooping.

"I said thank you," Kirkland said. Bonnefoy smiled back, and then nodded back. "You're welcome, old friend." He left quietly, and without a sound, down the hall. When he passed, a nurse was said to have seen a brief tear cross his stubbly face. But she could have been mistaken. Or not.

* * *

I told you all to pray…and thankfully, most of you did. v.v It feels so good to be back into the writing mood. Sandy is gone, the elections are LONG DONE, Sandy Hook reporters are off my doorstep and I have finally finished packing all my stuff to move! YEEEEESSSS. Life is good.

But still. This chapter. Damn, I'm so cruel. I need a therapist. Bubble wrap isn't cutting it out anymore. XD [I meant to cut it shorter, at the shed, but then I was like: "Why torment them? They've waited this long..."

**READ AND ****REVIEW****!**

***a fight with Mattie: **Think back in American history. Think back to when the White House was burnt. Here's a hint: 1812. (If you say motherfucking Britain, I will shove my foot so far up your ass, the surgeons will need to amputate your head to give back my foot.)

**** so I'm going to: **Alfred means he's leaving/moving away for a while. A vacation, really, not that he is going to do anything to Jacob.

*****leave it here:** You'll see a large time gap, next. Be warned. When Alfred comes back, we have drama.


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